


A Worn Out Lullaby

by eraleon



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Build, Trans Character, Trans Tucker, Trans Washington, feelings of failure, first multichapter fic lets see how this goes 8))), ill add on to the tags as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-05-27 20:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6298300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eraleon/pseuds/eraleon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washington spends his days trying to fight his way to home, trying to fight his way to save the man he didn't even realize he had began to love. It crept over him like a shadow, right from behind, and he wasn't as nearly as prepared to have it swallow him whole when it finally did.</p><p>He fails, over and over again.</p><p>And Tucker is left wondering if he really ever does anything right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. make it rain cherry wine

**Author's Note:**

> Prologue.

It's funny how he always made such bold statements --- How his motto seemed to only be _I'm a lover, not a fighter_ , and yet... 

To him, love fucking sucked. He never wanted to fall in love again, not after what had happened. Not when he fell in love, so sure he was destined to marry, so sure it would last forever, and then he was ripped from his hands. He swore to himself he would never feel such a damned thing that was akin to love ever again, for fear that he would go through the same heartbreak and the same suffocating, drowning sadness that came with losing such a thing. He promised, he made a pact with himself that he would never... Never feel it. 

Yet somehow, it's funny how fate works out, huh? He stood there, in the mouth of a yawning cave, desperately calling out to _him_ \--- His heart yearning for the reassurance that they would make it out alive. Yearning for the familiarity of the strength of the man right besides him, the assurance that everything would be okay if Washington had just listened to him for once. If he had let go of his stupid death wish, and just ran to Tucker's side; If he just forgot about the idiotic hero mindset and just realized that he was a hero to him. And it was when the mouth collapsed, when all the rubble and stone fell at the touch of his fingers that Tucker realized his promise had been broken.

It was waking up, realizing that Washington was gone, _that not everyone makes it back alive_ , in which he has to walk away and find a place the least in the open, and fall to knees to the whim of threatening tears. It was the searing anger in the back of his mind, as Washington, at someone -- Anything --- he didn't know, maybe himself --- and it was the fact that he had tried to strike a boulder out of such said anger that had him shuddering in the cold response to the aching loneliness. He was a lover, damnit.

Not a fighter.

So how was it... How was it that Agent fucking Washington had been able to single handedly force Tucker to lose every regret and pact he had made to himself that he would never fall in love, that he would never fall into the ravine straight into rock bottom, and force him to fall to shambles? How was it that he had fallen for his own Commanding officer?

How was it that he fell for the man that drove him absolutely insane? That he was so sure he hated? Or maybe Tucker was more of a masochist than he thought.

Or maybe it was the fact that Washington had shown so much care, so much love for the sim soldiers, that there wasn't any way he could have not fallen for him. Maybe it was the way how Washington took time out of his supposedly "busy" schedule just to check on Caboose and Tucker, even if he was spectacularly awkward about approaching such a situation --- There was just a certain charm in the way how he did it. There was a certain way that he just... Did things. 

Love. Fucking. Sucks.

And Tucker supposed he'd have to change his motto, change his promise and bend it 'till it broke. He'd live up to it. He'd be a lover, _and_ he'd be a fighter. 

He'd fight for Washington, fight for his freedom, fight for him to be his. Promise or no promise, he needed the Freelancer back in his life. 


	2. don't belong to no city

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And there's a storm you're starting now.

“Damnit!”

“Agent Washington, sir, if I may ---” 

“No, Captain. I don’t need help on this. What I need is --- Is... Time." He stops for a time, eyebrows deeply furrowed and lips tightening into a thin line. Helmet or not, he can just feel the gaze of the Captain on him, analyzing his every movement, as if the orange visor was transparent. The edge of Washington's lip twitched uncomfortably, and a taut sigh managed to escape in to the room. "Go tell your soldiers they fought bravely and they deserve rest. I’ll figure out plans for the next siege. You are dismissed.”

And there was the waves, the gaze, the worry emanating off of the soldier before there was a shift, a quiet “yes, sir”, and he was gone. It was what Washington wanted, to be alone at that moment --- Yet, somehow, it left him feeling even more hollow with no other presence filling the room but _him_. His grip on the table loosened somewhat to let go, before his hands curled into tight fists and a frustrated sigh passed off of dry lips. 

He found that to be happening more and more, the sighing. He did it a lot before, but that was before the Reds and Blues. That was a time when his sighs were heavy and solemn. When he became friends with the others, those sighs turned into something more, something purer: exasperation. Amusement. Emotions that he hadn't felt, didn't think he was able to feel, because of Epsilon. Because of Project Freelancer. Because of his own father. Washington vaguely mused that if he received Eta or Iota, none of this wouldn't of happened.

He supposed he should feel some sort of... Gratefulness, if that was even a word for this.

Now, every time Washington planned some kind of raid, or ambush on the New Republic for information, such an action always turned up just short of achieving the goal. There was always some kind of miscalculation, something the soldiers couldn’t carry through with, something that always turned up when it was least expected. There was always _something_. It was beginning to set a fiery rage within the Freelancer, a certain frustration and anger at no one else but himself for yet again not being able to protect the ones he loved. It set fire to those sighs and burdened them with the heaviness that returned and made its presence known. He couldn’t rescue Simmons, Grif, Caboose --- He couldn’t rescue _Tucker_. 

No matter how many times he tried, whenever his goal was within reach, whenever he was so fucking _close_ , he failed. 

And it was becoming pretty damn clear that no matter what he tried, no matter what variables he changed or added, failure would be something he would have to live with.

Just what was it? What held him back so many times? What kept his goals so unmanageable, that they were always so out of reach? 

It was an odd thought, definitely. It reminded him of the talk with Church just before he jumped in to the AI unit, out of reach. It reminded him of the way how he disregarded Tex by saying she was just a shadow of his mother. Of Allison, of who Tex was supposed to be. Perhaps failure was something that just seemed to run in the Church family.

And Connie's voice resonated throughout Washington's head, her biting voice and harsh brown eyes blazing: _"You're just like the rest of them. You're such a Church."_

Perhaps she was right in that regard.

The bitterness settled in his stomach, turned his mouth sour and forced a gag in his own helmet  ---  purely because it went against every fiber of his being to ever become something like his _father_. And sometimes, in the nightmares, the worst fears, he did become his father.

( He guesses that's also a side effect of the times where he technically shared a mind with the Director in a messed up way, but he digresses. )

But Tucker wouldn’t be such a mess like this. He’d probably be telling Washington that he needed to calm down, that he was just trying to hard. He’d probably tell him that everything was going to be okay, as long as he’d just... Relaxed. _What was that with Tucker?_ Was it some kind of... Defense mechanism? Coping? Survival tactic that somehow the Freelancer just hadn’t caught on to yet? It seemed to be a thing with the Reds and Blues, to put their hope in that luck would come, and everything would somehow turn up alright.

No matter what they did, they always succeeded. Even with overwhelming odds stacked against them, they always came through the other end victorious. They didn’t plan anything, they didn’t have backup, or any means of... Good equipment. So how? How was it, that an Agent with training of years and years, the experience of wars fought and battles won, that he couldn’t rescue four soldiers from a rebellion poorly supported? What was it that he was lacking? 

Why couldn’t he measure up with _simulation troopers?_

...No, that was wrong thinking. They’re more than just simulation troopers. More than just more pawns used by the Project to "help" the Freelancers simulate actual battles. They were people, too.

But the answers to those questions would go unanswered for now. Whether or not he’d find the answer would be a whole different story for sometime in the future.

“Wash?”

Oh, for the love of all things _holy_. Why was it that he couldn’t plan something out, and now he couldn’t even get some peace and fucking _quiet?_

“What --- Oh. I didn’t, uh, see you there, Sarge. What do you need?”

Perhaps it didn’t really come out as a question for such, but maybe kind of an exhausted demand. Because, at this point, Washington wants nothing more than some kind of alcoholic beverage and some goddamned _rest_. The stress is beginning to get to him, and the nights are becoming restless just like before --- Before Caboose and Tucker. He didn’t take his helmet off nearly enough, though he was grateful for that. No one knew what he looked like except the Blues. No one knew how bad the dark circles under his eyes were becoming yet again. 

What he wasn’t expecting, though, was for the soldier clad in red armor to move forward and place a gloved hand on his shoulder, a gentle sigh ( or, as gentle as a gruff sigh could get ) filling the silence. It nearly has Washington jump from his skin, before he took the second so graciously given by Sarge to relax his entire body and let go of the tension. The last time he hadn’t done something like that, it triggered some form of a panic attack --- Though, no one was around to help him calm down from it. ( And it was also under much more stressful circumstances. )

That’s something he didn’t want to relive.

“...I’m okay, Sarge.”

“I wouldn’t believe it for a second, son.”

And he’ll finally move his visor to meet with the other soldier’s, sky blue eyes searching in vain for any kind of expression that could’ve been shown through body language and armor. But there was nothing except for the way how Sarge’s voice was soft, softer than his usual loud and somewhat harsh voice was. Amd when Washington said nothing, when words failed him and the only thing that came from him was a small noise of sorts, that’s when Sarge spoke up again.

“You’re worryin' too much, Wash. You’re constantly in this room, and it’s like you never even eat anymore. I'm no psycho-analyzing doctor or somethin', but even I would notice when one of my fellow soldiers was puttin' themselves through too much for their own darn good. Son, you need to speak up.”

It seems resistance is futile.

“...I understand, Sarge.” His voice is somewhat weak, unsteady with so much emotion beginning to weight it down, until he’ll put a hand over the other man’s, gently moving it off his shoulder with a sigh. “It was that obvious, huh? I should cover my tracks a bit better than that.”

“You're sayin' that like you’ve done this kinda thing before.”

“I... Er, might’ve. ...Yeah, I have.”

Sarge lets his hand fall to his side, turning his body halfway to the exit before jerking his helmet slightly in Washington’s direction.

“You could come with me, Washington. Donut’s getting lunch from the cafeteria for us. You could sit and talk over there.”

But when there’s no answer from the referenced Commander, Sarge gives a small nod before taking his leave. And right before he finally disappears behind the doorway, he tosses one final goodbye over his shoulder: “If you need me, you know where to find me.”

And just like that, he was gone. 

Washington remains still for a while, blue eyes taking a stormy darkness to them as his mind ran blank, thoughtless. Today's a good day to die. It was something he seemed to recall Sarge saying at some point, but for some reason he just couldn't pinpoint exactly when. He couldn't really recall certain things, anyway --- It bothered him, as do many things. But he knew Sarge was right. He knew that he wasn’t taking good care of himself, he knew that this was a road all too familiar --- That this was the road Tucker had tried to derail him off so tediously before. 

He would’ve been successful, too, had it not been for the separation. 

But then again, Tucker had such qualities about him. Caboose, too. All of the Reds and Blues had tried to help him get off of the path that Washington had already carved for himself. A toxic, dangerous road that only lead to deeper despair and hopelessness. Tucker knew what to say to help the Commander out, to try and cheer him up, even if it worked only somewhat. Caboose's innocence and otherwise suffocating cheerfulness and blissful ignorance uplifted Washington's spirits most of the time, even if just a little. Grif and Simmons tried to drag him in to games the group would always play, tried to make him feel like he was truly a part of the teams now. Simmons, who had struggled so hard to grow used to Washington's presence, to learn to trust him, even when Donut had already forgiven him. Sarge, who had taken him in like some sort of fatherly figure he never really had after Allison died.

Even with arguments that seemingly caused rifts between them and their friendship, somehow it was always patched up, and better than before. The bonds entangled like titanium wouldn’t break so easily. He faintly wondered if the team knew just how much they meant to Washington.

What was it like back at the New Republic, he wondered? Were they suffering? Were they hostages, treated poorly? Were they tortured by the maniacs that resided in a hidden cave somewhere on Chorus? By the stories that were often whispered in the Feds' groups, Washington could only assume that the maniacal bastards were torturing Tucker and the others for information, for all of the things they just didn't have. It was something that didn't sit right with the man, and something that kept him up at nights hoping they could be successful for just once.

There was a loud sigh resonating within the room again, before Washington glances at the table with all the holographic battle plans and decides _yeah_ , maybe he did need a break. Maybe everyone needed a break.

“...I might just take you up on that someday, Sarge.”

But more than anything, he needed to have Tucker back at his side. He needed to be able to rest again knowing his team was safe, as well as Simmons and Grif. That wouldn’t happen until he sorted everything out, until he completed one mission successfully without failing again. 

And maybe then he would allow himself to be yelled at for his poor self care.

 

. 

 

_You just had to go and save yourself again, didn't you? Are you that blind? Can you not see how much I need you?_

 

_Or do you just not..._

 

_Care?_

 

 

. 

 

 

_“Kari, come on. Are Ema and Avalon ready to go? Are they well prepared? Lunch and everything?”  
_

_“Yeah, mom. Everything’s ready to go, dad helped. Don’t worry about us! We’ll be okay.”_

_“That eases my worries so much.”_

_“Aw, come on, mom.”_

_“I’m just joking with you. I’ll see you guys soon, okay? Don’t say goodbye, I’ll be back.”_

_Except she never did. Golden hair never showed up at the front door again, a voice full of happiness never rang throughout the house again, eyes that brought the sky into the home never shone again. Red hair became duller somehow, green eyes dimmed out, and a vibrant personality became somewhat colder. Screams filled the household, grief set in, and Avalon was stuck in her own grief --- Her own wallowing hatred for the military, anger, denial. She was alone. She was screaming. No, no, no, she couldn’t leave again, Allison couldn’t leave she couldn’t go away she wasn’t dead maybe she was alive she didn’t say goodbye so she’s still here, she’s still with them, they just needed to find her she was OUT THERE ---_

.

 

.

_Dreadlocks. Nothing but dreadlocks, and maybe arguing in the background. Definitely arguing in the background, but why was it so far away? Why did they all sound... Angry? Oh, oh no --- They were angry at him. He knew it. Even the voice above him sounded angry, all the different voices becoming harder and harder to differentiate. Which voice was who’s? They all sounded so familiar, they all sounded like he should’ve known, but somehow he just couldn’t_ remember _. They were mad at him. They were furious. What’s going on, what’s happening? What’s going on? What’s going on? What’s ---_

_He was held at gunpoint._

_“Talk now, Director, and maybe I won’t just shoot you.”  
_

_Director? He was the Director? No, no no no he wasn’t the Director he wasn’t Leonard, he was --- He was Agent Washington --- Agent Washington, right? David? No, he was --- He was Epsilon. Which was... Leonard. Oh, so he was Leonard after all? God, he didn’t commit crimes --- No, he did. He committed crimes. He should be in jail. He nearly killed a kid. He tortured Alpha. No, no --- He didn’t torture Alpha. This wasn’t him, he wasn’t a monster ---_

_You’re just like your dad. You’re such a **Church**._

_No, Connie, no! I’m not! I’m not my dad, I’m not Leonard! I’m... I’m... Agent..._

_._

_._

_._

_“Agent Washington, you failed. We found the rest of the Reds and Blues, but... We were too late, sir. They were all dead before we could make it to them.”  
_

_“... And... The aqua one?”  
_

_“Reported dead on the scene, sir."  
_

_You failed._

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

And he woke with a start, with his face meeting the cold floor and screams cut short with such contact, broken cries of terror filling the empty room before paralysis cut in. Oh God, was he back at the hospital? Was he back on Sidewinder? Was it all a dream? Did he never go through physical therapy after all? Did he somehow never meet them, did ---

He regained his breath, fighting blankets entangled around his body and eventually pulling himself free, before he backed up against the wall with pupils dilated and shallow breaths coming almost too quickly for actual oxygen to reach his head.

Tucker was dead. _You're such a Church_. Kari, Emma  --- 

Carolina was gone.

If this was the usual nightmare, if this was something Washington had braved for years now by himself, then why did Tucker make some sort of appearance into it? It wasn't completely unnatural for the Reds and Blues to somehow squeeze their way into his nightmares, the worst possible fear influencing them and twisting the dreams in to things like that --- But just Tucker? Failure was a thing, of course. But this time, he woke with knowing who he was --- He was painfully reminded that he was Agent Washington, nothing more than a lesser human that just couldn't do the things he tried so hard to do. He couldn’t protect Texas, he couldn’t save his Mother, couldn’t help her escape her own failures. He failed CT. He failed York and North. Carolina, too. Maybe he was the one who was a shadow, living to meet with his sisters --- Sister. 

There was only one left.

Carolina was still gone.

Epsilon, too.

So he didn’t dream of everything, it all happened. He met them. He wasn’t back on Sidewinder, this was... 

“The Federal Army.”

But it was a good thing the panic attack didn't come, no matter how much Washington had braced himself for it. The panic attack that would so commonly follow up after a rather terrifying nightmare, the one that would leave him completely ravaged for the rest of the day, and possibly longer.

Maybe it was the better part of him speaking.

Sleep would not greet him after that. He didn’t want it, anyway. It left him with a growing bitterness that he wouldn't so easily shake, wouldn't so easily get rid of. So Washington ran a hand through messy blond hair, slid on a jacket and sneakers, and quickly escorted himself outside the base to run. It was a patrol, in a sense, with him keeping an eye out for any suspicious activity, but none came. No one was awake besides him. The sun didn’t even rise, though Washington guessed it was early enough to where it wouldn’t for a while. Days were somewhat different from Earth, anyway.

 

 

It was when the first rays of daylight began to seep over the mountains, over the landscape, and only then would he take a seat on a nearby rock slab to watch the oranges and pinks begin to paint the sky with brilliant colours. If there was one thing to take away from Chorus, it was the breathtaking scenery --- Sunrises like this only made it a masterpiece. Though Washington loved them the most, seeing as he lived in nothing but blackness for three years of his life on the Mother of Invention; The sun gave him warmth, made him feel something. 

It moved him to emotion on some accounts.

Of course, the stars were beautiful, too. He loved them, after all, and he often stargazed while he still lived in Texas. The skies were clear there, much more clearer than when he lived in Washington for a short time, and he knew all of the best spots to get clear, pure views. Wash remembered those times, the dreams of one day wanting to go up in space. To travel, to one day be someone who would go down in history for his efforts in the war. 

For, because of the war and the covenant, many people had grown terrified of looking up at the night sky and the stars. He should have too, because it took Allison from him. 

But yet, he didn't. He didn't let such a bitterness cloud him and his love for space, rather he let it motivate him to join the military later on in life.

So when he became a Freelancer, when he boarded the MoI, stars surrounded him everywhere and he truly felt content for a short while.

He faintly wondered if Tucker saw the same thing. If, where he was now, he could see the beauty of all the scenery, the landscape, the way how the sun painted colours across the sky that Tucker sometimes said Washington was. He said Wash was this vibrant shade of blue, yet often the baby blue of his armor, that he was sometimes a deeper blue than Caboose's armor, a navy blue --- A blue that showed his sadness, that showed his demons and the signs of his struggles. But then, Tucker said he was grey. Said that, whenever he overflowed with colour, nothing could mask the darkness and the grey that hid beneath. And nothing made his heart race faster than when the soldier clad in aqua brought up such creative observations, how he figured Washington out in no time at all. It'd been a while since he met someone who could do that, especially when he didn't even know who he was exactly.

He wondered if Tucker wanted to be an artist.

And he sat there for a while, waiting until the sky was blue and the sun were a vibrant washed yellow. Like the yellow Tucker said the sunrise was against a paling sky.

Breathing in, Washington finally got on to his feet and spared the base a glance. If he couldn’t get his thoughts off of the other man, then perhaps he did need Sarge, after all. Perhaps he just needed confirmation that what he felt, what he thought he felt, was true.

It was something he learned somewhere down the road that thinking about his past like that only led to a downwards spiral.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Well, this was downright unexpected. And probably rude on his part, but he really, _really_ needed to speak with Sarge. The sun had risen already, so perhaps it wouldn’t be _too_ bad. ...He hoped, anyway. Washington was a commanding officer, and the other soldier had very well agreed to letting him run drills early in the morning. He didn’t really mind waking up like that, but yet --- This wasn’t that business. This was a different matter entirely. And because of that, the Freelancer had lost all his courage to do so. It was one thing if he was rousing the other from sleep for drills, but for a simple talk out of desperation?

It hardly seemed fair.

...Maybe Donut would help him.

_No, no --- Sticking with Sarge._

He didn't necessarily want an overdramatic guy that already practically loved the idea of Tucker and Washington being a "thing" to know that his idea might possibly come true. 

Possibly.

There was still a chance that it wasn't true, and Tucker actually hated Washington as much as he made it seem back at the crash site. 

He could practically hear Donut's voice now: _He's in looooove!_

No.

And he softly rapped against the door a couple of times, taking a step backwards as he heard a muffled voice and rustling from the inside of the bunk. It took no longer than a minute before the door had opened and revealed Sarge, looking somewhat disheveled and a little... Gruff.

“What brings you by at this hour, Wash? Couldn't sleep?”

The sound of his voice rouses the Commander from his thoughts, bringing his gaze up from the floor with a noise of curiosity and he finally brought himself to respond.

Some time ago, he would've never been able to comprehend the fact that Sarge would one day grow comfortable enough around him to show his face without a helmet, or without armor in general. Washington would've never guessed that the entire group would do the same. So, every time he saw the older man's face, it brought a sense of deep appreciation and gratefulness to surface, a small smile taking hold subconsciously. With graying hair, a buzz cut, and scars littering Sarge's face, Washington wondered what kind of stories he had been through, what kinds of things he had seen. 

Now was not that time.

“Uh, sort of? I’m not worried about that right now. Listen, are you still up for that talk you said we could have?”

There was a moment of silence as Sarge processed the query, gaze dropping to the floor for a heartbeat before he brought it to meet with Washington’s again, and gestured for him to come inside the bunk with a jerk of his head. He did so, and Sarge closed the door behind him before seating himself in the chair nearest the bed where the other man sat.

“What's up, Wash?”

And it was like the floodgates opened.

“I can’t get this fucking --- I can’t get _Tucker_ out of my head, no matter how hard I try. Every time there’s a free second to think, he’s there. Even when I don’t have the time to think, he’s _still_ there. Every time I plan those rescue missions, I keep thinking about what _he_ would do. With his stupid luck and his stupid sure-fire failure of plans to do any kind of mission, yet how did he always succeed? How did he always manage to show me up, when he couldn’t even run laps when told to?" Wash pauses, hands flying up and tangling within his disheveled hair and blue eyes resting on the floor in desperation. “...Why is it, that whenever I sit alone for five seconds, all I can think about is rescuing him? Getting to see that huge smile on his face, getting to have him by my side again --- And all I can think about are those eyes. The _fucking dreadlocks_. Damn, this sounds horrible and ridiculous but I just --- “

“Son, what’s your experience with romance?”

The unexpected intervention from Sarge made Washington abruptly pause his sentence, hand gestures and all ( he thinks he picked that up from the highly animated Tucker when he spoke ),  before he blinked and looked at the floor once more. He’s been in love before, he knows the feeling and what to expect, the hell that came along with it. He was in love with two, back when he was... Unscarred. Back when he was a tolerable human being.

He prayed that he wasn’t _in love_ with _Tucker_.

Because love meant falling, and falling was never a good thing. He didn't want to fall, not in the middle of a war, not when he could come so close to losing Tucker in just the blink of an eye. 

But he also had a feeling that maybe Tucker didn't even share the sentiment.

“Well... I was in and out of relationships mostly, back before I joined the military and long before I became a Freelancer. Ahem --- I _was_ in a relationship when I was a Freelancer, though. But that was a long time ago, I don’t see how it makes ---“

“So you would know love when you felt it, or saw it, right?”

_God, please don’t let this go where it’s going._

“I guess? Listen, Sarge, I really don’t think I’m in love with Tucker ---”

“I think you don’t _want_ to be, but you are. There’s no easy way around it! You’re a little... _head over heels_ for him. Why, I’ve no idea. Ya just _are_.”

Sarge’s voice had gone soft, his hazel eyes meeting with sky blue with a smile and the tiniest of shrugs. Washington hadn’t really seen a lot of the other soldier in a state like this, actually somewhat happier than normal --- Smiling like a...

Father to a son. 

He never really knew the feeling, but somehow it just set in and clicked ; Something laced within his mind and his very being and he _belonged_. The Reds and Blues had truly accepted the Freelancer now, there were no hostilities whatsoever. They didn’t think of him as a crazy, psychopathic “soldier” that had absolutely no boundaries when it came to killing others in cold blood. This was the pure, unrestrained acceptance. This was Sarge showing him that he was valid. His feelings were valid. There was no reason to fear any longer.

All of the Reds and Blues seemed to be extremely special to Sarge, like they were all his children of sorts. He protected and cared about them, even if he had a... Somewhat strange way of showing it.

The fact that he supported Washington loving Tucker was more than enough for acceptance.

And just like that, it brought the smallest of smiles to his face.

“...So I am. I guess you’re --- Right.” There was a brief moment of hesitation, and he’ll bring his gaze up to meet with the soldier clad in red, “Sarge? I really, _really_ want to  save Tucker right about now. I want to see Grif and Simmons. I want to hear Caboose’s crazy and albeit completely erratic sayings at the worst of times. I really, really want Tucker by my side again. I just _want them to be safe._ They won’t be until I save them, and I _really_ save them.”

He rose to his feet, and almost at the same time would Sarge do the same, stepping forward and taking Washington in to a tight hug. It caught Wash by surprise, eyes widening ever so slightly before he returned the gesture once it fully sank in. 

“You’re a part of us now, Wash. You have a right to feel like you do.”

And with that would the Freelancer tighten his arms around Sarge, resting his forehead against his shoulder with a soft chuckle and a sigh of pure relief. 

“Thank you, Sarge.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

_"You're dripping like a saturated sunlight, just torn apart at the seams you're trying to hold together."_

 

Maybe Tucker did want to be an artist after all.

 

Washington silently agreed with himself that he would encourage Tucker to speak so poetically like that all the time.

 

.

 

.

 

 

 

“Washington, sir! We weren’t expecting you to be back in here so soon. Are you really sure you want to do this?”

“Yes, Private, I am. And I promise you this time, this time the outcome will be better. I’ve got an idea for this mission, and I think it might just work well in our favour.”

 

.

.

 

And now Washington carried himself different, his walk had this certain bounce to it, a certain level of newfound confidence that certainly wasn’t there before. There was still an overwhelming amount of stress on his shoulders, the possibilities that the other four were being tortured somehow, there was still no signs of a smile on his face like there was at crash site Bravo, like there would be as soon as he had secured the rest of his team’s safety. He needed to succeed, he needed to see the familiar aqua, orange, maroon, and blue. He needed to hear their voices and utterly ridiculous antics again. 

He wanted to live. And if living was spending the rest of his days with those idiots, that were kind of _his_ idiots, Washington agreed silently that it was something he would strive for at all times. They took him in when he was hurt and injured beyond belief, and although there was a rocky beginning and acceptance didn’t come until much later, here he stood present day, and they considered him as a part of the family. 

The weird, indescribable family that somehow stuck it out wonderfully until the end together. If they could do that, if they could come up every time successful, then he could plan a successful rescue mission. He could save them, and bring them back. He could save Tucker.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

“Hey, guys. Have you seen Tucker around?”

Simmons’s inquiry brought Grif and Caboose’s attention up from their food to him, and earned the maroon soldier a raised eyebrow from Grif. 

“Nope. He’s been super stressed out about trying to find information on the Feds, you know this, Simmons. It’s like the guy fucking forgot how to relax. I’m beginning to think Wash had more of an effect on him than we thought.”

“I am still confused about this. Yeah, I still do not understand what is going on.”

There was a groan from Grif, in which he quickly silenced himself afterwards and rested a ( albeit somewhat harsher ) hand on Caboose’s shoulder. 

“Good. It’ll confuse you more than you already are.”

“Guys, I’m serious. I’m worried about Tucker.”

Simmons’s interjection caused silence to fall between the three, Caboose continuing to hold a steady gaze at him while Grif let his fall to the table. All three of them were pretty tired and stressed out from the whole ordeal, from the war itself and worry that they weren’t going to be enough, but Tucker had it the worst out of all of them. He was the appointed Leader, after all. He dealt with the shit all three of the soldiers had to deal with, except more. He had to deal with responsibility, with carrying the weight of approximately eight more soldiers, and possibly an entire army, as well. 

There was definitely more to the story there.

“I think we all are, Simmons.” 

“He really wants to find Wash.”

There was a pause, before Grif lifted his gaze to Simmons. “Dude, Tucker's got it bad for Wash. To what fucking extent and God knows why, but he does.”

“Honestly, I picked up on that at some point. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

“Who has feelings for who?”

“Nothing, Caboose. Keep eating and humming that song you were... Humming.”

And Simmons sighed, setting a stare on his plate of untouched food before he pushed it towards Grif, rose to his feet, and left. 

_I think we all could use a break._

 

_._

 

“Do you really think Wash is gonna be alright, Sarge?”

“No, Donut. I don't think for a second he will be, but maybe he will be once we rescue the others and they prove it to him that they're alright.”

“I wish he knew that he can rely on us, too. I wish he just... Knew that he doesn’t have to go through everything alone. Do you think we can, maybe, convey that to him somehow?”

“Heheh, maybe.”

“Well, where’s the harm in trying?”

"Ooh! I say we should give him a massage. Doc said I give great massages from our time back in Valhalla!"

"That sounds a little bit on the creepy side, son."

"But don't you think he'd appreciate it? He looks so tense and sore!"

"Still creepy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick shoutout to yorksmith for beta'ing this chapter!
> 
> not gonna lie, i had a lot of fun writing this, and i think i'm starting to get a sense of where i want this entire fanfic to go tbh! i hope it's as exciting for you guys though lmao
> 
> catch me on tumblr for more updates and maybe future fics i plan on writing: @eraleon !
> 
> thanks for reading! ( and also, thanks to everyone who gave the prologue kudos and commented! that really helped motivate me to write this uvu )
> 
> EDIT: i finally fixed and added some things here and there! i think theres a chance i might beef it up more in the future, but for now, im more content and whatnot


	3. i could look you in the eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Lavernius Tucker is angry. He's angry because he knows he's fucked, and he knows damn well that he's also frustrated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey !! it's been a long time since i've updated this fanfic, and i just want to say that i'm incrdibly sorry for that ! school and work caught up with me as per usual, and while i'm not sure if this signals my return or something, ( because i dont have a single off day sadly ) i do hope to put a little more effort in to updating! 
> 
> i also heavily edited the last 2 chapters of this fic, so if you wouldn't mind to reread them i'd appreciate it!

Agent Washington was a man that was nearly untouchable to Captain Lavernius Tucker. From the moment he had seen the ethereal way the Agent stood, the way how he was nearly outlined against the dull paleness in the rain, the way how the light halo of the droplets seemed to outline his very figure, it left Tucker breathless. The first time he had witnessed Washington without armor. The first time, despite the man’s protesting to going without armor because of the dangers lurking, he had seem him become to comfortable that he had went without it. It was to feel the rain. It was to feel the chill, to feel the wetness, the purity and feeling of finally being washed away, of becoming one with the ephemeral grey hanging upon the canyon like a silk curtain. It was to become entranced, to let the rain wash away the sin.  
It was to become human once more.

Captain Lavernius Tucker knew he was fucked. And that made him absolutely angry and frustrated.

He also recalled the one time he suggested a campfire with the entire group, to which Washington quickly agreed with the utmost amount of enthusiasm. It was the night that everyone had learned more about the Freelancer than previously, and it wasn't just about how he looked in civvies. How his face looked for the first time. 

The scars that littered his face, the dark circles underneath his eyes, the overwhelmingly thick eyebrows that furrowed somewhat when he was confused, the slight pout that came to cross his chapped lips whenever Tucker pulled some kind of joke on him. 

The way how he styled his hair even with wearing a helmet every day, the freckles splattered across his face like stars in a galaxy, the way how his eyes reflected the clearest and deepest ocean that Tucker had missed seeing.

It was the little things like that that made Tucker fall absolutely ten times quicker than he wanted to. 

But that was something for another time. 

Now, he had to fully dedicate himself to carrying Washington's training and morals to the New Republic, and single handedly try to win a war just for him, Sarge, Donut, and Lopez all at the same time. 

It wasn't just about Tucker anymore.

That had to be the hardest part he had to learn so far.

 

 

 

_See, I don't really know what to do anymore. Everyone looks up to me, they all expect me to win. They all expect me to know what to do, how to do it, how to carry out missions and how to know I made a good decision in the end._

_I don't._

_I don't know what I'm doing._

_I don't know if these are good decisions._

_I'm kind of lost._

_But this is something you would be able to handle without batting an eyelash._

_How?_

_You're so used to war._

_I'm sorry._

 

 

 

"Tucker!"

"Oh my God. What do you want now, Palomo?"

"Well, in light of what's been going on recently, the other Captains and Lieutenants have been actually pretty worried about you. And by the way how Captain Caboose and the others have been explaining it, this isn't really... You."

So Tucker stops. Full on stops, mid-punch, aqua eyes resting right on the punching bag as the words sink in, and his eyebrows furrow downwards deeply. 

The one time he loses himself in thought, and he allows for possibly his most annoying soldier to sneak up on him. ( But that would be false, wouldn't it? Tucker loses himself in his thoughts quite frequently now. )

He retracts his arm, beginning to unravel the white wrap around one hand to readjust it before he sighs heavily.

"And what have they been saying, exactly?"

"You're just training really hard, sir."

Tucker hasn't heard such a feeble voice from Palomo before, and it quite frankly bothers him to an extent --- The softness doesn't suit the soldier. No, he's supposed to be irritating and bad for Tucker's temper and tolerance. It was like that now, the familiar grating on his nerves, but for all different reasons. Who was he to know Tucker's mental health and physical state?

And who was Caboose to go around telling everyone that he was worried about him, when he should be worried about Wash and the others?

About Church?

"I don't give a fuck, Palomo, and you shouldn't either. Wouldn't this be your favourite moment where I'm not trying to force us to do drills anymore?"

"Well, ever since those helmet cam things came by and Felix and Kimball keep failing us, I'm caring more than ever now. I always kind of did, actually --- But you're out Captain, sir. Everyone looks up to you, Captain Caboose, Simmons, and Grif."

There it is.

"Well maybe I don't want to be looked up to, you ever think of that? I was kind of thrust in to this position, Palomo, and if it weren't for this fucking stupid war, maybe my team wouldn't have been separated like it was because of these armies! I already lost two of my soldiers, and I can't lose any more. Go the fuck away."

And while it wasn't exactly something Tucker wanted to resort to, wanted to say to the young Lieutenant's face, he felt it needed to be done. And it worked, because there's footsteps trailing until they gradually fade and the door to the smaller training room closes. 

He didn't need to be reminded of his failures, and the fact that Felix was being such a hardass on him and all of his troops only made the situation worse. Tucker just wanted to save the other guys, already, and he wanted to do it now. Not to wait. Not to be reminded constantly that he makes mistakes more than anyone else, that with every second that passes, his chances of saving Washington were slim to none. Not with the hanging fact that he and the others were holed up in some remote part of Chorus, a fucking ice fortress basically, with little to no help or resources to even get them far. 

He contemplated giving up, sure, but then what would everything else amount to? 

He couldn't. 

And so, with Wash's voice in his head, Tucker kept up his solo training and kept up the sleepless nights.

 

 

 

"...Caboose? You asleep, dude?"

A gentle inquiry, a whisper and no more --- but there's only the sound of soft snoring from Simmons and rather loud from Grif across the room, and the sound of shuffling on the bed above him. In no more than five seconds would Caboose's head hang over the edge of his bed, a sleepy look on his face before he yawned.

"I have been awake for a pretty long time. Are you, perhaps, going to tell me that you have talked to Palomo before and that he said that you were trying too hard to maybe, I don't know --- "

"Caboose, he came to me. And frankly, I didn't really appreciate it as much as you're saying I should've. I'm just fine, and you should know that better than anyone."

"But what if I know you are lying?"

Possibly the second time Tucker got shut down in a row, just in one day. And he was getting particularly incredibly annoyed at that.

"So what if I am, anyway? When did it even matter to you?"

It's more biting than what he wanted it to sound like, but its words he's been wanting to ask the other man for a while now. Even more so now that Tucker knows Caboose expressed the slightest bit of concern for him to Palomo, of all people. It was just so difficult to read him, to understand what went through that head and decipher anything and everything that came out of his mouth.

So when Caboose swings down from his bunk and right on to Tucker's bed, brown eyes blazing and rather tense, Tucker stops his mouth, stops every thought until he decides to curl up against Tucker's shoulder.

"It matters to me because you are a part of my team, and a lot of people care about you. Church does, too. Tsk, yeah I'm pretty sleepy now, though, so good night, Tucker."

And it was just like that, as simple as it was, that Caboose falls asleep, right next to the sim trooper, in the soft glow of his exposed tattoos and highlights in his dreadlocks. _Just like a walking highlighter,_ Washington would say.

He supposes it must've been comforting enough for people to relax so easily. 

And it's silent again, save for the other bunk adjacent to Tucker and Caboose's and the snoring, but it leaves him brooding and mulling what his friend just said over and over again. It struck a chord within him, something that made him feel somewhat lighter than air. 

Perhaps he wasn't as alone as he always told himself he was.

Perhaps Church was right, after all.

"Where ever you are, you fucktard, thanks."

It isn't to anyone in particular in the room, but Tucker knows --- Deep down, he knows it was meant for Church. 

And it was also meant for Caboose and Washington.

 

 

 

Part of growing up and maturing, Tucker realizes, is just fancy for knowing how your actions affect others. Maybe that's an incredibly insightful thing for him to think, maybe it's something no one would expect for him to actually know, but it's something he holds rather dear. In the past months he's been stuck on Chorus, he tries not to really think about it, tries not to revert back to his self in Blood Gulch. The past self of him that was an insufferable prick, and while he may be insufferable even today, it was for different reasons. He never really cared about "hooking up" with people, even back then, though. He may have had relations with Kaikaina, but it wasn't... As frequent. 

Sex wasn't the number one thing he always thought about, if anything. 

And while he was still working on maturing as a person, there were so many bumps in his road that it often made him rethink if he was even as dynamic as people said he was. With so many mistakes made, with two of his soldiers gone because he just couldn't listen to orders, it was hard for Tucker to truly think he was dynamic, and not static. That he was constantly moving, and not being stuck in one place. 

So perhaps he knows the concept of maturity, but just doesn't know how to apply it yet. That's fully probable, too.

Because, after all, Tucker doesn't really see how his training schedules are affecting everyone around him so badly. He can't really bring himself to see why he's so important so everyone as much as they say he is. He's a loose canon, someone that can't be easily trusted --- ( Felix said that ) --- and yet, they all bring themselves to actually check up on him every day, every hour, to make sure he didn't pass out, or he wasn't close to actually dying. Training, as Washington said it, was just something to keep up with, to make sure he and Caboose were always in shape and prepared for the worst case scenario to happen.

...It's funny.

Wash said Tucker wasn't in shape before, and now he'd like to think the man was wrong.

Because if he was going to be honest, he felt better than ever now that he trained almost constantly, and his body was beginning to show it. Once Tucker rescued Washington, he'd have to bring a camera along to capture the look on his face when he sees how much he'd grown, how much he'd matured.

He just wanted to be approved in some way.

"Fuck, if I'm turning into Simmons." 

"You are turning in to Simmons? Oh my god! Grif, I think there might be a second Simmons. I think we are already in the presence of another Simmons right now!"

"Wait, what? Dude, no, that's not --- "

Ah, welcome back to reality in hell. AKA: Breakfast with the three douchebags that would practically jump any chance to humiliate each other and laugh about it for a solid ten years, and apologize another fifteen afterwards. It'd be funny had it not've been at Tucker's expense, if Grif didn't just start cackling, and Simmons didn't start choking on... His own spit, probably. 

And if Caboose didn't scream every chance he got.

"God, please no more Simmons...es. It's bad enough there's already one in existence, right next to me, breathing as we speak."

And Simmons sputters, turning his body to actually look at the orange soldier with a dumbfounded expression. "What the fuck, Grif!"

"What can I say? It's true." He shrugged, continuing to pile in his plate of eggs with a rather nonchalant expression.

"Oh my god, can you guys just stop acting like a married couple just for, like, two seconds, please? I was just fucking wondering shit, and I started to sound like Simmons. Which, personally, fuck you for that, too." Tucker points with his fork at the man vertical from him, an eyebrow raised and a very aggravated look in his eyes, "Stop infiltrating my mind. Next thing you know, I'm gonna be programming computers and raising my voice a few octaves every time a girl passes by. And dude, that can _not_ happen."

"It's not my fault you're easily influenced!"

"Oh, yeah? What makes you say that, Mr. I-Never-Hit-Puberty?"

"Well, I don't think you would've ever been training as much as you do now had it not have been for Wash. I don't think you would scream as much, and lose your temper every chance you get had it not been for Wash, either. Maybe you also get your asshole-ish traits from Church. You hang around him all the time, don't you?"

"Used to, dipshit."

"Simmons, maybe he'll start liking cats next, too." Grif'll add, a mocking and amused tone taking an edge to his voice as the faintest of smirks began to creep up on his face.

And that's when Tucker loses his cool, once more, shoving his plate in Grif's direction before standing up, giving Simmons the middle finger, and promptly leaving the cafeteria. 

"...I do not think he appreciated that very much."

"No shit, Caboose."

He clicked his tongue, "Yeah, I think he is more off to the training room to start his regular training again. Again. ...Again. Again..."

"Anyway,  Caboose, don't you have somewhere to be? Specifically, somewhere _with_ Tucker? It was your turn to make sure he doesn't kill himself today, if you don't remember. As usual." Grif jerked his head towards the exit of the cafeteria, kicking the back of Simmons's leg underneath the table for some kind of help in the situation.

"Ow, what the fu --- I mean, uh, yeah! I need to talk to Grif, anyway. And... begin some sort of armory for --- "

"And just when I thought you guys were ready to give up, you prove me wrong yet again." Felix seems to materialize out of nowhere, sliding in to a seat right besides Caboose, all pierced smirk and all. He had just a regular plate of native Chorus fruit, but like Grif, shoved as much in to his mouth as he could.

 "That's sarcasm. That's fucking sarcasm!" Simmons exclaims, in which Grif would lay a hand on his shoulder and mockingly sigh in reassurance for him.

"Y'know, technically, we can capture you right now, since you're so conveniently right next to the biggest guy on our team."

"I think he is talking about me," Caboose mutters, his curious brown gaze resting on the merc next to him.

"I'd say I'd like to see you guys try, but I already have for almost five days now. Ooh, speaking of that, you guys are nearing five. Soon your little buddies are gonna get moved, and you guys have yet to make any progress. Atleast, not as much progress as Tucker's been making. Y'know," He pauses thoughtfully, taking a second to thoroughly chew his last mouthful of fruit, "I've never seen a man train as much as he has. Except for, of course, myself, anyway. You guys might want to start gearing up for Kimball to reject you entirely." With a low chuckle, Felix rises, "Deuces."

And he's gone.

The three sit in silence after that, not even Grif wanting to eat much after such an encounter.

Simmons is the first to speak up. "...That guy seriously gives me the creeps sometimes."

"Yeah... I'd better go get to Tucker." Caboose is the next to leave, quickly adding his plate to the pile nearby before making his way out of the building.

They're left contemplating the next move, until Grif breaks the silence once more after finishing the last of the contents on his own plate.

"I think Tucker should come to terms with what he lost --- "

"Grif! That's fucking insensitive, you asshole --- "

"And work to actually get it back. You didn't let me finish, dipshit. All he's doing is moping around and pushing himself to the limits, and not really working plans to go rescue Sarge and Wash and the others in the first place."

"...Yeah. I don't know, Grif, this is something we're all not really used to. We've never been in leadership positions before, and for Tucker, it's kind of a big deal. I guess he just wants to be like Wash in the flesh, but it's just not possible. I don't really know what else to do to convince him about that."

"There isn't really much, Simmons." He sighs, standing up and gesturing for Simmons to do the same and follow him out of the cafeteria. "I hope he knows."

"Me too. But what do you think we should do now --- "

**_MSG: Tucker_ **

_[ text ; SENT ] guys, meet me in the room by all the bunks. i gotta tell u guys something_

"Huh. Well, looks like that problem's solved."

"I don't know, maybe he's finally coming up with something?"

"...Maybe."

 

 

_But the truth is, Wash, is that I miss you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i enjoyed writing this greatly !! it's definitely an experience to write a multichapter fic, and while this is kind of a mess because i'm not used to it, thanks for reading and commenting anyway! hopefully i'll be able to update more now that summer's here and whatnot!
> 
> catch me on eraleon on tumblr for more!


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